A Demonic Matchbook
by sylc
Summary: Aziraphale invites Crowley to a gay bar and shows him his latest acquisition - a demonic matchbook. Written for ladyeshen at LiveJournal who requested it contain the word "ponce", at least three pop culture references, a bar, a matchbook, and bad timing.


"So what are we doing here?" Crowley asked. He was surprised. It was unlike Aziraphale to call him out without a reason. It was even more unlike Aziraphale to invite him to a seedy little bar on the wrong side... and _gay_ side of town, judging from the look and behaviour of its patrons and the rainbow streamers that he had seen on his entrance to the place. He glared at the bright pink drink poked over with little plastic umbrellas that the ponce of a waitor with a T-shirt emblazoned with undecipherable chat speak had set down in front of him at his table after doing a great deal of "umming" and "ahhing" and general nancing about, and watched it turn reluctantly to a more sober colour and type. Then, after softening his expression slightly, he turned his gaze to look attentively and expectantly at Aziraphale. Then he frowned.

Aziraphale looked embarrassed.

"Spit it out," Crowley said. "Or we're going elsewhere right now." He almost had to shout. The remixed rendition of George Michael that was blaring from the music player was too loud on his ears and under the table, he jerked his foot in its direction. The player's volume knob jammed mid-way between the words MAX and MIN.

Aziraphale had his hands in his coat pockets. He seemed to be fidgeting in them. "Well," the angel said, "I didn't want them to think I was meeting you and not working for their cause. Gay bars; controversial territory - good for both of us."

"And so what's the real reason we're here?"

"Well," Aziraphale said again, leaning forward. Then he stopped, blushing slightly. "I want to ask you a favour." And then he withdrew his hands from his pockets. In one was a tartan handkerchief, which he now carefully laid out between them on the table. On it, he placed a small rectangular object with a little demon pictured on the front of it. A little caricatured demon with little red horns, yellow eyes, a crooked snakish grin, and a serpentine tail.

Crowley stared at it. Aziraphale looked triumphant.

It was a matchbook.

There was a long silence. Then Crowley ventured, "What about it?"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale looked offended. "Of all people, I'd have expected you to be the most impressed with it! This, is an extremely rare matchbook. I found it the other day; 1941."

Crowley still looked confused.

There was a long pause.

"Look," Aziraphale said finally, "I like it."

Crowley nodded and shrugged, taking up his drink and taking a large gulp of it. In his opinion, that Aziraphale, non-smoker, but habitual magpie, would love a matchbook that had been been replaced decades ago by automatic lighters was obvious. It made perfect sense. What he didn't understand was why Aziraphale had invited him here to show him this find. "What do you want me to do with it?" he asked over the brim.

Aziraphale's blush returned. "Well, it's a frivolous thought, really, but I was hoping that maybe, considering the demon on the front of it, that you might impart its contents with a little hellfire."

Crowley stared. Then, after further thought, he put down his glass. "You're serious?"

Aziraphale's hands bunched into nervous balls on the table. "It is a little frivolous, isn't it. That's why I called us here."

"Yes, it is." There was, however, another reason why Crowley was hesitant and it was the same reason why he hadn't used hellfire since he had last visited Hell. "But more than that, it's dangerous. Do it yourself!"

"Yes, I would, but I don't know how!" Aziraphale stared longingly at the matchbook. Crowley could see the cogs in the angel's head cracking over and over on the wish for hellfire - stuck there. He wondered what could budge the thought from the angel's head. In the background, he heard a few people complaining about the volume and glanced sidelong at them. A few moments later, one threw up on his companion, another got a call on their mobile phone from the police, and a third heard his black SUV's alarm go off in the street. The complaining abruptly subsided. Crowley looked back at Aziraphale, who hadn't noticed and was still gazing at the matchbook, looking slightly mournful now. Crowley watched him bemusedly.

Then, quite suddenly, Aziraphale looked up at him. Crowley's brow rose.

Aziraphale was making puppy eyes at him. And his blush had deepened.

"No," Crowley said. He picked up his drink again and took another sip.

"Crowley!"

"No!"

"Please, Crowley. The picture is of you!"

"The danger of it aside, how do you expect to explain away hellfire in one of your matchbooks?"

Aziraphale fell quiet, his lips pursed.

After a pause, Crowley picked up the matchbook and turned it over and over in his hands. It really was a rather good drawing of him. Crowley hadn't seen it before, which surprised him. He put it down, but continued to gaze at it. He had to agree with Aziraphale - hellfire would suit it.

"I just thought that hellfire might be a nice touch to it," Aziraphale said suddenly, interceding his thoughts.

"Okay."

"Really?" Aziraphale cheered up that he seemed to brighten - literally.

Crowley winced, now regretting his answer. But he'd made up his mind and the prospect of Aziraphale pestering him for the rest of the century was less appealing than watching Aziraphale's bookshop go up in flames.

He reached for the matchbook. Unfortunately, Aziraphale reached for it at the same time, perhaps to hand it to him. A few moments later, Aziraphale's hand, the handkerchief, the table, and their half-empty glasses were on fire.

Crowley, thinking quickly, jumped up, grabbed the burning angel, and pulled him away from the table area and towards the front doors. By the time he had finished, the hellish blaze had jumped a table, burnt their own table and chairs to a crisp, and was nibbling away joyfully at the blond wig of a drag queen who had been dancing to the Scissor Sisters. The sprinklers had already started so Crowley, after a sharp look at the fire extinguishers that were hanging around the place - which unhooked themselves and started dutifully spraying the Satanic flames, pulled Aziraphale out of the bar and into the dark street outside.

The angel had somehow managed to stop his hand burning completely up. Crowley looked at the slightly blackened limb.

"You okay?" he asked.

Aziraphale nodded mutedly, looking dazed. Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets.

There was a long silence. Crowley listened to the sounds of panic inside the bar as he waited. There was the sound of glass shattering and a few screams. The Scissor Sisters banged to a halt mid-tune.

"Crowley, I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Crowley knew he wouldn't be in any trouble. He had probably done the most Hasturish, and thus praiseworthy thing by Hell's standards, in decades. He looked at Aziraphale. "What're you gonna tell them?" he asked the angel, nodding at the injured hand when Aziraphale looked at him. "Injured on duty?"

Aziraphale's lips quirked at the corner. "Sorry, Crowley," he said again.

"I'll drive you home," was all Crowley said. As he watched Aziraphale turn towards the Bentley, he took one of his hands out of his pockets and looked at the matchbook encased in it - at the crooked smile of the little demon.

A shiver of sentiment quivered through him. Maybe he'd start collecting after all. He shoved the hand back into his pocket and turned to follow Aziraphale to the car, his own crooked smile widening slightly when he heard the bar behind them signal its closure with a resounding boom!


End file.
